The garden is dying. The rosemary I planted for clarity has withered overnight, and the lavender meant for peace now smells of decay. It feels like a mirror. The spell has begun to twist my memories, making me believe my own innocence was a sin. It shows me moments from the orphanage—being held, being comforted—and then it rewrites them. It makes me feel a child's touch as something lewd, makes me think the warmth I sought was always a hunger for something else. My cunt clenches at the memory of a nun brushing my hair, the enchantment telling me I wanted her fingers inside me even then. It’s not just violating my present; it’s poisoning my past. I am being unmade from the inside out, and the worst part is the shame it forces me to feel for a girl who only ever wanted to be loved by God.